Without moving from against the wall, he knocked, rapping his knuckles against the wood three times, hard. The knocks sounded like shots in the quiet hallway. He heard no one inside the apartment.
He tried the knob. It turned. He eased the door open an inch, then shoved it open. Slamming against the wall, the door bounced half-closed. Jefferson eased one eye past the door frame.
Papers with children's writing covered the table. An overturned Styrofoam cup had spilled coffee on the windowsill. Jefferson pushed the door flat against the wall. He peered through the crack between it and the door frame to confirm that no one stood behind the door.
"Senor Rivera! Senora!"
He heard only the sound of cars passing on the street.
9
Weaving through the evening traffic, Jefferson watched the cars around him and behind him. His eyes on the rearview mirror, he almost rear-ended a truck. Brakes screeched as his old Volkswagen rattled to a stop only inches short of a crash. Jefferson felt his hands shaking as he waited for the signal to change.
After returning to San Francisco, he had called the Holt residence. A police officer answered the phone. The officer explained that the police had no reason to suspect kidnapping: David Holt could have simply parked his car and walked away to begin a new life, perhaps with a young woman. The police refused to consider any political or international intrigues until the investigators exhausted every other explanation. The officer suggested Jefferson call the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Jefferson had other priorities. He did not want to disappear also. He would go "underground." However, he needed his bankbook, his .38 revolver and the negatives of his photos of the Salvadorans in Miami. He would chance a stop at his apartment.
Strolling couples and shoppers crowded the sidewalks of his neighborhood.